by Jenna Kernan
She took the opportunity to gather several stones from the broken wall, ignoring the thirst that had turned her tongue to sandpaper.
She knew her history. Knew that the upper ruins were known by outsiders as Apache Leap, the stronghold that none could find during the Apache Wars. But the Apache Scouts had discovered her people and brought the cavalry. General Crook had hurled boulders down on her ancestors. There was no room in the cavern for all of them. Caught between the falling stones and the cliff, many of the men, women and children had chosen to leap to their deaths.
Morgan dropped one stone from the wall at the edge of the cavern floor and then another. She checked. Her captor was not moving. Morgan briefly considered throwing them down on the fallen man, but she did not have the stomach for it. Such things marked the soul.
Instead she sat back to wait. The FBI might not know where she was, but Ray and Jack and Dylan would find her. She had confidence in Tribal Thunder. Were they on their way now?
She peered over the edge at the still form and prayed they would come soon.
Morgan missed Ray. True, she had faulted him for doing as his medicine society had asked him. What had he done to her really? Had it been a lie or had he just kept his secrets? She thought of Lisa’s father who had deceived her and of how she had never told a soul about him, not even her father, until she had spoken the truth to Ray. But all those years she had kept silent. Wasn’t she entitled to her secrets? Wasn’t he?
He had been assigned to her protection. He had also been given an objective. And although she had been an assignment at first, she believed all that had changed the night they had slept here in this canyon. At least it had changed for her because against all her best judgment and her past experience, she had fallen in love with Ray. And she planned to tell him so. Now all she had to do was stay alive up here on the hot stone beneath the blazing sun with no water until he arrived.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ray and Dylan agreed on the tracks and followed them to the driveway of a neighbor. Chief Tinnin and FBI rousted the occupants but they had seen and heard nothing.
“We let it out that Morgan found the money and left it up in the canyon by the upper ruin,” said field agent Cassidy Cosen.
Ray did not need any more information. He was already running for his truck.
“Wait,” said Forrest. “We’re getting four-wheelers from Tucson.”
How long would that take? The machines were faster, but Ray had a trailer and two good horses that loaded well. Dylan swung up into the passenger side.
“We’ll meet them,” said Dylan.
It seemed to take forever to load the gear, horses and supplies. But both men knew better than to go into the canyon unprepared. The drive along Turquoise Lake to the lower ruins was only seven miles but it was insufferable to Ray who cursed at every slow-moving truck and each winding turn.
“It’s not faster if you put us in a ditch,” said Dylan.
Ray gritted his teeth and hunched over the wheel as they bumped into the lot and saw the sign that announced a permit was required to visit the ruins. Permits were necessary for outsiders, not members of their tribe. The lone blue pickup parked here did not display a permit but did have a residential parking permit for Phoenix affixed to its front windshield.
Ray pulled in beside the vehicle and threw his truck into Park and Dylan exhaled loudly as he released his hold on the overhead hand grip. They left the truck and met again behind the trailer. Ray swung the rear gate open.
“Look at that!” Dylan pointed skyward.
Ray glanced up and was rewarded by the sight of a canary-yellow hot-air balloon floating up and over Turquoise Lake.
“Is that today?” Dylan asked, referring to the semiannual hot-air balloon festival that began and ended off tribal lands but drifted over their airspace.
Ray had no time for hot air. The air down here was hot enough and he knew what this kind of heat could do to a person. Did she have water? He backed out the first mount, a gray gelding. Dylan followed a moment later with the chestnut with white stockings. They swung the blankets and saddles up in unison.
“You think about that Indian Relay Race at all?” asked Dylan.
Ray grunted and cinched the girth so tight the gelding groaned. He let the strap out a notch.
“’Cause I don’t think those Brule Sioux have anything on Apache when it comes to horse racing.”
Ray shook his head and loaded the water and pack on his mount. Next he checked his rifle and then slid it into the sheath and tied it to the D-ring on the front of the saddle. Finally, he swung up. They were off. After the lower ruins the trail wound up giving him glimpses of the dirt lot below. The outsider’s vehicle and his truck and trailer were still the only vehicles parked there. If the FBI were coming, they certainly were taking their time. Ray looked forward now. He and Dylan were on their own. The trick would be to find Morgan and her kidnapper before he knew that they were there.
His ancestors had a fierce reputation as warriors. He and Dylan and Carter and Jack and Hatch were warriors, if modern ones. He was well trained and ready for a fight. But he’d never faced a foe with so much fear in his heart. If anything happened to Morgan, he would never forgive himself. He had to reach her soon. He had to bring her home to Lisa. Ray swallowed at the lump rising in his throat as he realized the terrible truth.
Somewhere along the way, he’d ceased to follow his shaman’s orders and begun to follow the whispering of his heart. He loved her but with the dry air and relentless sun that might not be enough to keep her alive.
* * *
MORGAN SQUINTED AGAINST the harsh sunlight. The urge to move to the shade and relative cool of the cave lured but to do so was to lose sight of her captor. Unfortunately, to remain here at the rim in the rising heat of the day threatened her in other ways. She scanned the canyon floor for rescue but, seeing none, she despaired. The unrelenting heat of the rock rim at midday stole her strength, killing her bit by bit. Her head pounded and her tongue stuck to the roof of her dry mouth. Her pulse was too fast and she now struggled with dizziness. She tried to recall the last water she had tasted. Last night, a small swallow after brushing her teeth. If only she had known.
Morgan forced herself up and to the lip of the cave, where she discovered that the man was not only up but he was also heading to the four-wheeler and retrieving a rifle. If he intended to shoot her out of her cave, he had better have something more than a .38. He lifted the rifle stock to his shoulder and she drew back from the edge.
A moment later bullets pinged off the rock, peppered with some very colorful language. She did not reply to the barrage of bullets or foul names. She did move to the far side of the ledge, affording her a different view and the chance to see him before he spotted her. The man was up on his feet. He had removed the camouflage head cover and looked up at the place where the ladder had rested. She stared at the unfamiliar face. As she suspected from his speech, he was Anglo. His hair was light brown and short, his face fleshy with a jawline obscured in a double chin both of which were in need of a shave. Blood flowed in a steady stream from his cheek. His hands bled, likely from his rapid descent down the log and his clothing was coated in dust.
She did not want to hurt him but she also did not want to die of dehydration up on this ledge. She eyed the orange cooler strapped to the cart behind his four-wheeler. Then she searched down the canyon for any sign of rescue. Was Ray in one of those shiny beetle bright vehicles winding along the ribbon of road that threaded around Turquoise Lake?
Something above her caught her attention. Big and bright and yellow as a summer squash and rising in the blue sky. It was a balloon, the kind they launched for tourists from Goodwin Lake. Another appeared over the ridge of the canyon wall, this one had wide blue-and-red vertical stripes. When the rainbow balloon appeared she recalled the hot-ai
r-balloon festival that took place each April. She and her father used to sit on the back porch and watch them float by. They could even hear the sound of the fire from the tanks that lifted the voluminous nylon up into the sky.
The sound of shoed horses brought her attention rapidly back to earth. But the source of it did not make sense. Beyond this canyon lay miles of Mazatzal Mountains and no easy access to roads or trails. A person would have to ride up the parallel canyon and then circle back to reach this place from the northwest. Morgan pushed up and away from the lip of the canyon to get a better look at the riders. Hope rose but she knew that most of the tribe’s horses were not shod and she could clearly hear the steady clank of horseshoes on stone.
Her abductor must have heard it as well because he lowered his rifle to listen and then swung the weapon toward the two men who rode in line with a pack horse on a lead following behind.
One rode a large chestnut and the other a piebald with a white rump and black tail. The pack animal was a lathered dun with a head hanging from fatigue. The riders seemed easy in the saddle, dressed in jeans, boots and long sleeved shirts. Their riding gloves and the broad cowboy hats made it impossible for her to determine their ethnicity or anything other than that they were of average build and both carried rifles, sheathed and tied to their saddles.
“Gifford, you damned fool. You took off your mask?”
She judged the speaker to be the lead rider. His words had an odd quality. Not muffled exactly but vibrating in a way that did not seem quite natural.
Her abductor lowered his rifle and took two steps backward as if struck.
“Bleeding all over himself, too,” said the second rider, coming abreast of the first.
“I—I...” Gifford did not make a winning reply.
“Where is she?”
Gifford pointed and Morgan tensed. She did not draw back from the lip but continued to stare down. The first man glanced up at her and then the second. She frowned as she tried to make sense of what she saw. They wore masks, the molded plastic kind. The first man wore a red fox mask and the second the likeness of a brown bear. A chill slithered up her spine.
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothin’. I swear. I just said she was going to take me to the money.”
“What were your orders?” said Mr. Fox.
“Deliver the check to Rowe and return to base,” said Gifford. His voice had taken on a tone of contrition showing weakness and submission. “I did that.”
“You returned two days late,” said Mr. Bear. “And now you’re back up here.”
Gifford’s head hung and he did not meet the gaze of the animal spirit men that questioned him. “But she hid the money up here. I was going to get it back for us. For the cause.”
Even from here, Morgan could smell the lie. Gifford had been acting for Gifford and now he was facing his superiors and the music.
“It’s not our money. It was payment for a job that was completed,” said Mr. Bear, glancing up at her.
Morgan shifted, trying to resist the urge to disappear from their sight.
“Your father wanted you to have that money, Morgan, you and your young daughter, Lisa.”
She scowled, hating that they knew her name and the name of her daughter. The tiny hairs lifted on her body and for an instant, the blazing heat of the sun and the broiler that the flat rock beneath her had become were forgotten, as her skin went cold. It was a threat and she recognized it as such.
“Are you the ones who tried to take my daughter?” Her voice sounded strange, hoarse and scratchy.
The bear shook his head. “Not ours. Treasure hunter out of Tucson.”
“But she has the money. It’s up here,” whined Gifford.
“But she doesn’t. Kenshaw thinks she does. Not me. She’s too honest. If she weren’t, the Feds would still have her in custody. She cut a deal, sure as I live.” Mr. Bear looked up at her through the two circular holes in his plastic mask. “You gave it all to the Feds. Didn’t you? I would think a Tonto woman would have more sense than to trust the descendants of the men who stood on this cliff and hurled rocks down on your women and children.” The man lowered his head, returning his attention to Gifford as he drew his rifle and rested the stock on his thigh.
“She didn’t give it back. It’s here,” said Gifford.
“That’s what they wanted you to believe,” said Mr. Fox. “It’s a lie and a lure and you swallowed it whole. I don’t expect you to think for yourself—I expect you to follow orders. Did that oath you swore to our brothers in WOLF mean nothing?”
Was she looking down at two members of the extremists’ branch of BEAR? Morgan began to tremble. Forrest had told her that these men made no effort to preserve human life in their quest to return the land to its natural state. They had the mining explosives and they had the only man who could identify them, one from among their own ranks, killed by her father’s bullet.
“I’m sorry, Mr....” Gifford paused in mid-sentence as the man in the bear mask aimed his rifle at Gifford’s head.
Gifford raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and defense. But flesh and bone is no shield against a bullet. The man in the bear mask fired. Morgan gave an involuntary shout as Gifford fell to his knees and then sprawled forward in the sand.
“Check him,” said Mr. Bear, still aiming his rifle at the motionless, prone figure.
From her vantage point the scene seemed surreal, the effect amplified by being light-headed. Morgan’s heart beat very fast but whether from the shock or from the unrelenting heat, she did not know. She gazed down on the smaller figures as the fox dismounted and checked for a pulse on Gifford’s neck, kneeling, waiting and then shaking his head.
“Got him,” said Mr. Fox.
“Greedy fool,” said Mr. Bear as he sheathed his rifle. “He was about to say my name. They’ll be questioning his father now. Have to cut him loose for a while. See if he’s really one of us now.”
Morgan imagined someone hurting Lisa. She would never give her allegiance to such a man.
Mr. Bear’s gaze went to Morgan. She glanced toward the stack of rocks she’d collected. “Hot day, today, Ms. Hooke. I figure you have a few hours at best. If help comes in that time, you might survive. I do not plan to kill you because my sources say you do not know me or any of my compatriots.”
She tried to speak but her tongue felt clumsy and thick in her mouth. Her spit was like paste. She cleared her raw throat and exhaled, knowing the dry air stole water from her lungs with each breath. She needed drink and the sight of the water strapped to the men’s saddles tortured her.
“I don’t know you,” she said, her voice a rasp.
“Did your father name us?”
“No.”
“He was a smart man and we owe him a debt. I’m sorry for your loss. You can take comfort in the knowledge that your father died for a great cause.”
Her father died in a vain attempt to earn enough money to support her and Lisa when she would have given it all back again to spend just five more minutes with him.
“Time to go,” said the fox.
The buzzing in her ears grew louder. Morgan looked down at the two men in plastic masks and smiled. Why did their smiling faces and long snouts seem so funny?
Her head pounded and she just wanted to rest and drink water and ice tea and pink lemonade.
In her confusion, she almost crawled headfirst off the cliff. She was also slow to recognize that the sound she heard was not in her head but coming from down the canyon. A motor.
Mr. Fox mounted up.
“Farewell, Morgan Hooke,” called Mr. Bear, touching the brim of his hat. “I wonder if you will be alive to greet your friends. Nature is a harsh taskmaster.”
Then the two men turned their horses and retreated back up the canyon.
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“That’s the wrong way,” she whispered, knowing they’d be trapped up there. That meant the FBI and possibly Tribal Thunder would have to face these two faceless men in masks. She didn’t want that.
Ray. She had to warn him to keep him away from Mr. Fox and Mr. Bear.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The sound of the shot brought Ray to a halt. He rose in his stirrups to look up the trail but he could see nothing. They had stopped only once, to let the horses drink.
He glanced back to see Dylan looking up the canyon. He met Ray’s gaze and nodded.
Ray pressed his heels into his gelding’s sides and shot forward. He had the rifle out, gripping the stock as he guided his mount up the steep grade. They were only a few hundred yards from the ruins and Ray knew in his pounding heart that Morgan was there. Hope and dread blended like blood in water as he raced forward, praying and cursing in turns.
He barreled around the curve of the steep canyon wall as another hot-air balloon drifted over the gap in the stone above. Finally he sighted the cave and the ruins. An instant later he saw the still form lying at the base of the cliff. He pulled up on the reins as his heart seemed to rise into his throat, choking him and blurring his vision. Was it Morgan?
He urged his horse forward, the hoof beats landing with the rhythm of his heart. A man lay motionless in the sand, sprawled as if he had fallen from the upper ruins. Ray’s head sank in relief as he recognized it was not Morgan.
Behind him, Ray heard the click of a cocking rifle. He glanced forward and saw two mounted men. One aimed his weapon at Dylan, the other aimed at Ray. Their wide-brimmed hats shaded their faces but it seemed that they wore some grotesque, grinning animal masks. He glanced from one to the other, looking for Morgan.
